The Anti-Heroes

Chapter Eleven EMILY

Chapter Eleven

E MILY

Miles has been sitting across the dinner table making huffing noises every few minutes, as though challenging me to ask what’s wrong. He hasn’t been eating his farro grain bowl so much as he’s been moving the components around. I know he wants me to engage, which is why I’ve only been mentioning how nicely roasted the broccoli is, how perfectly seasoned the chickpeas are, and how tangy the lemon-tahini dressing is. Now that the living area has that fresh coat of Hummingbird Green, everything tastes fresher, more vibrant.

I spent every free second of my office hours searching for information on Zeus, but he’s an internet ghost. I was salty that he wouldn’t tell us his last name, so I decided I’d find it out myself. I’ve vetted more than one creep for Liv this way. While my sleuthing skills are top notch (and research is part of my job), it’s like Zeus has invented himself out of whole cloth. But weirdly, instead of making me drop the class and insist Liv do the same, all I felt was energized, and excited about the can of paint that was calling my name. So I made short work of the painting because it gave me a nice break from all my sleuthing.

Finally, Miles sets down his napkin. Meow is perched between us on the table, looking back and forth as though watching a tennis match. I’m pretty sure Miles is pissed, but making him mad is like angering a baby bunny—even at their worst moment, they’re entirely harmless, to the point that their ire is kind of adorable. “I just thought you could have talked to me before you painted this place such a garish color of green. My mother will hate this,” Miles says. He sniffs disdainfully.

Oh, did I not mention that Miles is a mama’s boy?

The pop of color has put me in such high spirits that I can’t help but toy with him. “I’m curious, are you suggesting that I get permission from you—or your mom—about the color I paint the walls in my home, the home I bought with my own money, where I pay the entire mortgage?”

I say this with the utmost sweetness. He’s smart enough to realize the pile of patriarchy he’s almost stepped in. If he says anything else, he’d have to turn in his rather extensive collection of Male Feminist T-shirts. He changes the subject, but not before he gives the walls one more withering look. “Um, yes, anyway, I spoke with one of your students today. She was very upset with you.”

“Taylor, right?” I nod conspiratorially, leaning in close as though sharing the hottest tea. “Did you tell her it sucks to suck?”

He gasps. “I absolutely did not! I would never! I just wish you would consider the counterpoint that she raised about your actions.”

“And what was that?” I stab a broccoli spear and stuff the whole thing in my mouth. So crisp and caramelized! The red pepper flakes really give it some zing.

“That the way you failed her, and then humiliated her in your office, made her feel bad—like she isn’t capable of succeeding.”

I hold up my pointer finger, which still has bits of Hummingbird Green on the nail bed. I make him wait for me to chew and swallow the large bite. “Yet failing her made me feel great, so you can see my dilemma.”

Miles scans the room as though searching for evidence. His gaze lands on my giant iced latte cup. “Have you been drinking coffee?”

I smile and reply, “By the bucketful.”

We’re full of excited chatter as we gather in the warehouse, waiting for our next session to begin. I don’t know if we’re supposed to call it training or coaching, but whatever it is, it’s making me feel things that have been long buried. Given everyone else’s enthusiasm—even Michael, who doesn’t seem to register that emotion easily—it’s had a similar effect on the rest of the crew. It’s been less than a month, but everything already feels different.

I lean into the group and say quietly, “Not only could I not find his last name, I couldn’t find him at all. No Yelp reviews, no Facebook. He doesn’t even tweet.”

“I have no idea what that means,” Michael says.

“Who exists in this decade without a digital footprint? Even Chairman Meow’s on social media,” I say.

“Chairman who now?” Michael asks.

“Her cat,” Liv says.

Michael reacts as though I suggested he wear polyester. “Don’t give me that face, Michael. It wasn’t my idea,” I say. “I love the cat with my whole heart, but I have nothing to do with the account.”

“Hold up, Chairman Meow with all the matching outfits? With the eyes that take up half his head? And those ears? He’s your cat? Whoa! I love that lil guy,” B-Money says. “The duet that Sia did with him was off the chain! But who’s the pale dude with him in all the pictures?”

“That’s Miles. He’s my ... associate dean,” I say. Technically, this is true. Liv raises her eyebrows. “And boyfriend.”

B-Money looks like he just bit into a lemon. “Bruh. Bruh. He’s spending too much time getting pretty with that cat. You can do better. He’s giving ‘I keep my dead mother in a rocking chair’ energy.”

I don’t reply. When Miles said he had to go home last night because the walls were “too loud and I can’t sleep,” the only thing I felt was relief as I snuggled with the Chairman, happy to have him all to myself. I have to end things with Miles. I’m not happy and I can’t imagine that I make him happy. It’s like we’re a couple by default, staying together for the sake of Chairman Meow, and my apathy has kept me from action. I’ve chosen security over satisfaction.

The worst part is, it was all my own doing.

I’m grading my first round of exams as an official assistant professor when Miles comes by with more new-hire paperwork. Before he enters my open door, he says “Knock, knock” instead of just barging in, and I appreciate the gesture. It’s oddly formal and old fashioned, but not unappealing. Of course, I thought he was cute when I saw him digging in the trash that day, and we got along nicely during my rounds of interviews, but I didn’t think too much of it then. I suspect he pushed hard to have the school hire me, as he kept sending me suggestions on formatting my research and how to address upcoming questions. I hadn’t had anyone on my team for a while, and it felt good to be the object of his attention.

We chat briefly about how I’m settling in, and I assume he’ll leave after the conversation reaches its natural end, but he’s sort of poking around in my office, looking at my personal effects.

“Might I ask the name of this handsome gentleman?”

A weird question, but Jeremy had that movie-star it-factor that—

“Those enormous ears!” Jeremy’s ears were totally normal, not too big or small or cauliflower-like from boxing or anything. “Those blue eyes!” Jeremy’s eyes were dark as coal, deep and mysterious, containing hidden truths.

That’s when I notice Miles is holding the shot of my new cat, not my old flame. “The seal point coloring! That wavy coat!” He lands in the wooden chair across from my desk, half swooning.

As Miles starts telling me about all the cats he’s loved from afar due to his allergies, I find myself disarmed by his lack of guile. There’s no part of him that’s trying to be cool or tough or to impress me in any way.

“He’s a Devon rex,” I say. “Did you know they’re hypoallergenic?”

When he lets out a gasp, I realize that this man has something, something interesting and refreshing. He would never be taken at gunpoint from me by Brazilian guerillas. He’d be as safe—and as exciting—as a pair of training wheels. But when you’re trying to ride a bike again, sometimes training wheels are exactly what you need.

So, when I suggest he stop by my house to meet the Chairman, he says yes.

If I hadn’t made the first move, we’d have never gotten together. I have no one to blame but myself.

When I told Zeus I was afraid of clowns, I had a particular image in mind. I was picturing Miles out on his bike, in his biking outfit, pedaling past a jewelry store, being inspired by a display of engagement rings.

I’d say I don’t fear clowns so much as I fear a clown hopping off his recumbent bike to buy me a diamond ring. Making our situation permanent terrifies me.

Liv glances at her phone. “Hmm. It’s getting a little late. I wonder where Zeus is.”

“Are you sure your phone is correct?” Michael asks. “My watch says 6:55.”

“You’ve got the wrong time again, my man. I think you need a new watch,” B-Money suggests.

We sit in silence for a couple more minutes. “I mean, he’s late every week, why would tonight be different?” B-Money muses.

“You know, I can Uber now,” Michael announces out of nowhere. “Of course, Chairman Meow probably can too.”

We continue to wait, each braced for whatever dramatic entrance Zeus has planned. But the longer we wait, the more we begin to doubt our purpose.

“Zeus has given me the confidence to make progress on my novel!” Vishnu says. “Before, I just had an outline, but now I have real words on the page!”

“That’s wonderful, Vishnu!” Liv says. “How much have you written?”

He deflates a bit. “Title page, dedication, and half a chapter.”

“Zeus has been helpful AF. Last week, I didn’t have a plan. Like, I didn’t even know how to find open mics. But this week, I suddenly have a plan to ... google how to find an open mic,” B-Money says.

Liv admits, “I brought only my coffee to work this week instead of enough for everyone, and it was so empowering. But later, I bought pizza for the whole office because I felt guilty.”

After being so snotty to Miles, I felt bad and bought him and Chairman Meow matching American flag outfits for the Fourth of July, complete with straw boaters. I hate myself for this.

There’s some grumbling about how long we should stick it out, and if maybe we shouldn’t all call it a night. All the faces that had been so animated when we arrived now look disappointed and defeated, and I’m hit with an epiphany that does not feel good.

“Wait, what are we saying? Are we all saying that maybe we didn’t make as much progress as we’d initially hoped? For me, I want this. I need change. I need to fight for us, all of us, like I couldn’t do in the coffee shop. What if we’re all so afraid of being challenged that we’re trying to find bogus reasons to quit?” I ask.

“That doesn’t sound like us,” Vishnu says.

“Doesn’t it?” B-Money replies.

As the minutes tick past, our seeds of doubt root further. Michael looks at his watch. “It’s 7:22. Even if my timepiece is slow, he’s late. Unacceptably late.”

Liv begins worrying her hands. “I can’t buy pizzas every day.”

I admit, “I don’t actually fear clowns.”

“Is it really so important that we become fearless?” Vishnu asks.

Silently, we reach a consensus that whatever is going on with Zeus, he’s not showing up tonight, so we begin to file out. To stop our momentum now feels like a huge missed opportunity. Like if we walk out this door, the odds are we’re not going to walk back in. Liv will get busy doing something for someone. Michael won’t know how to schedule an appointment on his calendar to remind him to come back. B-Money will get distracted, and Vishnu will crawl back into his shell. Everything inside me is shouting that we should stay, stay, stay.

I take one final look at the door where Zeus exited last week and think, We are never ever getting back together.

In the parking lot, it becomes clear that we’re reluctant to part, even though we’re gathered in a borderline terrifying area. “We’ll definitely all see each other at the Brew and Chew, right? We should make plans to meet up,” Liv says.

“I would like that very much,” Vishnu replies.

“If I do a rap battle, would you guys come?” B-Money asks.

“I would like that somewhat less, but yes, I would still come and have a smile on my face to support you,” Vishnu says. He and B-Money fist-bump. Theirs would be an unlikely friendship, a comedic buddy picture I’d pay to see.

We hear glass breaking in the distance, and screaming follows.

“We need to clear out of here,” I say. “Now.” As we each dig for our respective keys, a panel van screeches up, and I hold out hope that it’s Zeus, profoundly sorry for being so late.

The doors to the van fly open and two people in clown masks hop out, brandishing weapons. What is happening? The taller one yells, “Get in!”

Ever the rule follower, Liv grabs Vishnu and they enter the van, while B-Money tries to hide behind them.

I want to tell everyone to stop, to not comply. You’re never supposed to go to a second location. It’s almost always more dangerous. Does no one else listen to the murder podcasts Liv has forced on me? They’re so prescriptive! We need to stand our ground. We need to fight. We have to muster our resources—there are more of us than them. Liv could blast them with her pepper spray. Vishnu could go for one of their weak spots, like their eyes or nose. He could apply pressure to whatever artery would knock them out. I could throw elbows and high kicks, like the old days. We outnumber them.

We can do this.

We can take them.

We cannot be led into the unknown.

But I don’t say any of this, because I’m frozen. Again.

The taller clown brandishes his gun, and that gets almost everyone moving, except for Michael. They shove me in the back of the van, but I can still hear Michael outside protesting. “Be careful—this suit is a linen blend!”

The second, smaller clown is female and just as scary. “Do you want me to put a bullet hole in it?”

“Back seat okay?” Michael asks.

After we’re all herded into the van, the two clowns collect purses and phones. Fat tears roll down B-Money’s face and he cries, “Not again!”